


charon's lullaby

by straddling_the_atmosphere



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Fairy Tale Elements, Gen, M/M, Origin Myths, POV Outsider, Soft Apocalypse, Storytelling, Urban Legends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:54:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22451464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/straddling_the_atmosphere/pseuds/straddling_the_atmosphere
Summary: They said, if you want safe passage in London, find the Archive. Find the man with eyes like the new sun, and hair like the silvery moon, and he will demand payment. Stories, collected, and his presence in your dreams forever more.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 32
Kudos: 320





	charon's lullaby

**Author's Note:**

> TMA prompt: Jon being the TRUE king of the ruined world, please?
> 
> originally posted on tumblr but i added a few more words and cleaned it up a bit.

They said later, that the shift was so slow, so incremental, that nobody noticed. That the world spun round and round and one dictator breathed its last breath and another took its place, and the Eye that replaced the sun never stopped _looking,_ sure, but it became less fixated. Less agonizing. That the world was able to move on, relatively, with the Fears out in the open, those aligned and those un-aligned living in relative harmony.

That was far later, though, after everyone who conceivably could’ve witnessed it passed on. After the grass began to grow green again, and the cows began to give milk, though it never tasted quite the same anymore, and their horns grew thick and deadly even as they still gazed around with limpid, sweet eyes.

Then, though. The Archive and his lover, a wisp, shadow of a thing, moved through the cracked world. They told stories of them, a man who ate stories, a lover who disappeared those who crossed their paths.

They said, if you want safe passage in London, the epicenter, find the Archive. Find the man with eyes like the new sun, and hair like the silvery moon, and he will demand payment. Stories, collected, and his presence in your dreams forever more. And where you find this man, you will find his lover, the Archive’s lover, with eyes like clouds and hair tipped in fire and gold. He will sink you into a world where the ocean laps the shore but can never be seen, where fog seeps into your every pore. Where you will feel the loneliest you have ever felt in your entire life. 

But the passage will be safe. There will be a scarred hand in your own. You will get where you are going. And the Archive always leads you to where you need to go.

He was known, this Archive, among many. Tales of him and his shadow spread throughout the lands, and some said that he didn’t have just one shadow, but many. That there was a wolf trailing behind them, her muzzle red with blood, a woman with eyes similar to his, whose hand was always tangled in her fur. That sometimes he could be seen standing with the wolf, gazing out as far as they could see, while those they protected slept close to them. 

They said the day the world shifted, there was a girl who feared nothing at all, and one who saw nothing, her scarred eyes fiercely visible, jaw set, and a gleaming knife in her hand.

And that knife buried deep into a body hidden under the ground, and another one, across the city, looking over at a world he thought was his, choked, gasped, breathed its last breath, as the Archive looked on and on, cataloging as he always does.

“You made me this way,” they say he said, to the dying man in his arms. “It’s only fair I inherit your world.” And the name of the dying man has been lost to time, but the Archive laid him gently down, and they say he looked sad as he walked to the edge of the Shard and stared down at the wide, broken world. And the shift, slow, inexorable, inevitable, began.

And you tell a man sitting near you at a bar in Dublin this story, though you aren’t quite sure why, and he has a scarred face and piercing eyes, and next to him, his partner sits, their fingers tangled together.

“An interesting story,” the man says when you are done, glancing over to his partner. “Isn’t it, Martin?”

“Not the way I would’ve told it,” he replies, and its strange, but it looks like your pint glass has fogged up just as he speaks. “But I suppose it’s close enough.”

“My grandma saw him once,” you say, though you aren’t sure what compels you. “When she was young. She asked him for safe passage.”

“Did she get it?” the scarred man asks and you nod. 

“She said she’d never felt so cold in her life, that she dreamt of it later, the pressing cold, the ice in her toes. The darkness of his eyes. But she got home. Reunited with my great-uncle.” You remember the way she’d always rub her hands together when winter bit at them, and the lost, faraway look in her eyes when frost coated the windows.

“What happened to this Archive?” the scarred man asks again and you are wary of his too-knowing, sharp eyes. Not many Beholding types make their way into Dublin, where the Web has laid its claim.

“They say he’s still up there,” you say. “Looking down at the world. Cataloging everything the Eye can see.”

“It’s been ages, though,” the man ostensibly named Martin says, propping his chin in his hand. “Do you think he’s still there?”

“Nobody’s heard any recent tales,” you reply, dutiful. “But the world’s still like this, isn’t it? The Eye is still there, watching us, every time we go outside. So if he isn’t there, then something is.”

“And his lover,” the scarred man says. “What about him?”

You shake your head. “Mixed tales for that one. Some say he disappeared into the fog he so loved, and some say he’s still with him, that he protects him from the Knowing, when it gets to be too much.” The two men exchange a look, something soft in Martin’s gaze. Something about it makes you curious, bold.

“Why did you say you were here in town again?” you ask and the man grins at him, teeth very white, like bone.

“Oh, I’m collecting stories,” he replies. “After all, in this world, you never know when you might need them.”

When they leave, you’d be hard-pressed to remember their faces. The bright eyes of one, luminous and deep, the scarred jaw, and the hair of the other, red like copper and gold, the frost around his pint glass. But when you dream that night, you see something new. A creature, in the corner, watching you. 

It is made entirely of eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> follow me @ tomasortega on tumblr and send me more tma prompts!


End file.
